The Journal of Things That Don't Fcking Make Sense
by Nehszriah
Summary: Sam Cassidy is hiding a huge secret right under the nose of everyone in Number 10, and it's related to the fact Malcolm keeps on having nightmares.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: The following is the product of when I opened up prompts over on tumblr for a short bit. There's a decent chance I might not continue, but I thought I might as well share it all the same.

* * *

The Journal of Things That Don't Fucking Make Sense

"Ah, _fuck_! Sam! Sammy! Help!"

Samantha stopped typing mid-word and stood from her desk, rushing through the door that separated her office from Malcolm's. He was on the couch this time at least, sitting upright with his eyes wide and breath heavy, having just woken up from another nightmare.

"It's alright Malcolm, I've got you," she assured him as calmly as possible. She went into his desk and grabbed a couple anti-anxiety pills and checked the mug that was still next to his computer. It was cold, but it would have to do. She brought it over to him and had him take it, grimacing at the taste of the tea and still shaking from his terror.

"Every fucking time I want a nap," he hissed. Malcolm forced himself to drink the rest of the tea and held the empty mug in hopes it would level out his hands. "I don't think I've gotten more than an hour of sleep at a time in a month."

"The doctors said you're still doing fine, so don't worry—it'll pass," she said. Samantha sat down next to the trembling, grey-haired wreck and patted his back. "What was it this time?"

"The room was shaking violently; you were there," he recounted quietly. "I was shouting all sorts of technobabble, like an episode of Star Trek, and there was a big _lurch_. Hit my head on the… thing in the center of the room. Woke up."

"You've had that dream before."

"Yeah, but I remembered a bit more too… a woman named Martha not putting up with me being a cunt, apparently. Good lass, she was, though I feel a bit bad about it here." He placed his hand on the right side of his chest, opposite where his heart sat.

"Anything about Clara?" she asked.

He nodded silently. "She wanted kids, a family life, and I couldn't give that. Is that why she left?"

"I don't know, Malcolm," Samantha said. She stood and walked over to a bookcase, plucking a thin volume off the shelf and bringing it over to her boss. "I think this one might be for the Journal."

"O'course; what would I do without you, Sammy?" he sighed, taking the book. He opened it up halfway through—the first blank page—and pulled a pencil from his breast pocket to being writing.

"Probably too busy being Cal Richards's bitch or something," she laughed. "Say, you hungry? I think I can go for some chips, how about you?"

"Sounds great—though insinuate I'd be that midget's fuckboy again and I'll have some choice words about _you_ for once," he replied, a hint of laughter in his voice.

After making sure he knew she'd be right back, Samantha threw on her coat and grabbed her purse, walking out into the corridors of Number Ten. It was late, for the cleaning crew was out en force and most of the lights were dimmed. She greeted some of the workers as she navigated her way through the complex—if she'd need help one day it would be from them, and if not then there was no harm in remembering her manners. Slipping into a disused cupboard, she went and locked the door behind her, her heart tugging at the sight before her.

The TARDIS, in stealth mode.

Samantha entered and took a quick look around. It was a bit more put-together this time, meaning the ship had been able to pull herself together some in her absence. She went over towards the console and put her hand on the cool metal surface.

"He's remembering," she told the ship. "He thinks Clara is his ex-wife and now he's remembered Martha. I don't know how long I can hold him back with the drugs you gave me."

The TARDIS whirred and beeped sympathetically and somehow the human understood.

"…but one of these days something will go wrong," she protested in exasperation. "Eventually Gallifrey won't be a defunct Scottish village and he will know what happened to Clara. The Doctor will come back and he is going to feel _awful_ for doing this to us. I can feel that day coming; he didn't pick me up for just _any_ reason, you know." She tapped the side of her head, eyes fixed to the console center. "Gran's psychic gifts are getting stronger every day and it's only a matter of time before those poachers come for me as well."

A bell dinged on the other side of the console and Samantha investigated. Sitting there was a bag containing some piping hot fish-and-chips to-go and another containing the falsified anxiety medication—the memory suppressants that were helping keep the Doctor's strong mind at-bay. She thanked the ship, promised to return soon, and went back out into the lonely corridors, pretending she had just come back inside from the bitter cold.

"Here we are, Mister Tucker," she announced as she reentered the office. Samantha placed the bag down on a table and eased out of her coat. "Colder than a witch's tit out there."

"You're too kind," he replied. Malcolm stood and walked over to the table, journal still open in his hand. He held it out as Samantha passed him a takeaway container, prompting her to take it. She flipped through the new pages, finding sketches of Clara and the woman who must have been Martha, new circular scribbles in Gallifreyan, and a very kind description of their first adventure together (kind because she'd much rather forget nearly being killed several times by a masochistic Time Lady).

"Now what do we say?" she prompted.

"Nothing in this book makes fucking sense, and we keep our thoughts in it so that we can concentrate on doing our job when none of the other wanks in this building want to."

"That's right." She put the journal back on its shelf and tried not to watch him as he began to gobble up his food. They were going to get out of this alive, one way or another, and she didn't care who was going to be in their way—she'd make sure they'd stand aside.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: While I didn't have any plans to continue this, I ended up with a prompt to slide the Alex MacQueen (aka: Julius Nicholson) into the story and, well, this happened.

* * *

Sam never knew what it was about Lord Julius Nicholson of Armitage that bothered her—it was one of those things she couldn't quite put her finger on. Overall it was a nagging feeling at the back of her mind, something that told her there was something behind his not-quite charismatic smile and poncy giggle, though today… today it was his utter _insistence_ to see the Director of Communications.

"Samantha, I could have sworn I had the appointment for today," he said, slightly ruffled at his inability to access the inner sanctum. "Surely he can't be indisposed for more than a few moments."

"Mister Tucker is nearly dead-on-his-feet, and if _anyone_ wants him to be of use to the Party, he is getting in this nap— _assistant's orders_ ," she replied. After making a mental note to absolutely tear into him once she was done traveling, Sam stood up and made to physically turn the man out the door. He backed away, taking the hint.

"Alright, alright; I'll let Sleeping Beauty lie," he muttered. "Just please let me know when his next available appointment is—I'd like to go over a few things with him concerning the old days and moving forward and whatnot."

"I'll let him know you called," she said.

Once he was out the door she locked it, using the quiet moment to check in on Malcolm. He was mumbling in his sleep again, having broken out in a cold sweat. Sam knelt down next to him and frowned as she dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief.

"Bill, what would you have done?" she wondered aloud. She'd met the previous companion once—a fluke, actually—and if anyone was able to give her insight as to what was going on, it was her. Bill seemed to know an awful lot about how the ship worked and repaired itself, how the Doctor was when he wasn't himself, who this Clara woman was he kept dreaming about… pity she had absolutely no way of contacting her.

Gasping for air, Malcolm sat upright as he woke, trembling from head to toe. He looked over at Sam, his wide, heavy-lidded eyes paler than ever.

"Clara left," he said quietly. "She left and I sat by a river for twenty-four years. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" He tried to smile, yet couldn't. "Do you know where I put my journal?"

"Just a tic," she replied. Sam stood and fished the journal from the sea of papers littering the table on the other side of the room and fetched a pencil. She placed both things in his hands and they recited their mantra together.

" _Nothing in this book makes fucking sense, and we keep our thoughts in it so that we can concentrate on doing our job when none of the other wanks in this building want to_."

Malcolm silently opened the book and began to write down his dream: a river in outer space and endless night. Clara wasn't there, and he could feel the hole she left in his heart, yet there was someone else there who occupied a different sort of place in the seemingly endless plethora of emotions that he seemed to have _two_ hearts at times. He then began sketching a woman from the shoulders up, taking care to make sure he got the curliness of her hair and the subtle lines on her face. She wasn't Clara, and she did not make him feel the same as Clara, but she definitely seemed important.

 ** _KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK_**

"I'm sorry, Samantha? I wanted to leave… oh! I see you're awake now!" Julius said as he poked his head in. Sam cursed inwardly as Malcolm snapped the journal shut and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. She _needed_ to get her hands on that book, mainly so that no one else could. Someone in power such as Lord Armitage—no matter how amiable—getting hold of that journal could be the end of their charade. Not only would it put the two of them in danger, but others as well. Countless others—Sam couldn't even fathom.

"What the fuck do you want, Baldymort?" Malcolm sassed. "I know you're not wasting a social call for my sake."

"Oh, it's not much; I simply wanted your opinion on the launch that DoSAC is doing later in the afternoon. It's not _technically_ anything I'm involved with, but with the legitimacy of the super-department on the line…"

Malcolm's face blanched as he processed the situation: there _was_ no departmental launch this afternoon, least of all with DoSAC. "You know I can't give personal opinions, even in confidence. Not paid to have them, after all."

"Yes, that's right: you _sell the apples_ , as I've heard it explained before." Julius patted Malcolm's back while Sam silently watched from across the room, discreetly making sure the visitor kept his hands out of certain pockets. "Well, that was all—just popping in on my way down to visit Mother. You know how they are if you don't see them in-person after a while."

"Yeah, yeah; don't blind anyone with that skull of yours on the way out," Malcolm snarked. He waited until Sam closed the door behind Julius before taking the journal out of his pocket and opening it up at his desk. "Fuck… can't even write some shit down without everyone cocking up around me."

"That was close," Sam breathed. She was going to have to check on the TARDIS soon, see if there was anything she could do to help the ship along, because she didn't know how long she could keep this lie afloat.

* * *

Julius meandered his way along the lane, taking in the goings-on around him as he did so. He walked up to a modest townhouse and put a key in the lock, allowing himself access. The rooms inside were bare, the only sign of life being a woman sitting at table, grinning madly as she scrolled through a tablet.

"…and…?" she asked, not even glancing up. "How'd we do?"

"It definitely does look like Malcolm Tucker is the Doctor in disguise. I was able to get into close contact with him though, and nothing seems to stick out as being particularly Gallifreyan or Time Lord."

"You're just an AI interface—what are you supposed to know?"

"What you programmed me to."

The woman placed the tablet down and pursed her lips. "Fair enough. You got visual confirmation, yeah? Now we simply need to find not only where he keeps his secrets, but his TARDIS as well."

"His personal assistant keeps him on a short leash." An image of Sam popped up on the tablet, which the woman began circling with her pointer finger.

"He _does_ go through his little pets quickly, doesn't he?" she mused. She then pouted, scrunching up her nose. "I'm not sure if I like this one. She seems too… _goodie-goodie_."

"Then what shall we do?"

"Continue as planned." The woman swiped off the photo and tapped a couple buttons, changing the interface's settings. Lord Armitage faded away and was replaced by a string-bean of a young man, a curly black mop of hair atop his head. "Head on off to DoSAC, dearie. We don't want to be late for our bollocking, do we?"

"Yes, Master," the AI said. He gave a quick bow before leaving, allowing the woman time to privately scroll through the photos she had her servant collect of both Sam and Malcolm.

"No one keeps Koschei and Theta Sigma apart for long," she purred. "Tick tock, tick tock, your time has come to give him back, my dear."


End file.
